‘Jose Antonio will take you off this afternoon. He’ll want to show you the farm. I suggest you relax for a couple of days, settle in, then get to work after the weekend. Jose Antonio could certainly use an extra pair of hands.’
With Aunt Agatha George barely had a moment to think of Susan, or Rita for that matter. She talked without pause, often finishing her sentences with ‘isn’t it?’ or ‘don’t you think?’ so there was no way he could let his mind wander. Perhaps it was better that he forgot them both for the time being and concentrated on getting settled into this new country.
They sat once again at the table on the veranda, now laid for lunch. The smell of cooking meat wafted out from the kitchen. George’s stomach rumbled continuously and he longed to grab one of the bread rolls that lay enticingly in a basket in the centre. Finally, just when George was beginning to feel nauseous with hunger the low, gravelly voice of Jose Antonio bellowed through the hall. ‘Gorda! I smell food. Let’s eat!’
Chapter 11
Jose Antonio was a giant of a man: over six feet tall, with a broad frame, a wineskin stomach and thick curly black hair. When he saw George his face widened into a beaming smile. ‘George! Welcome to Las Dos Vizcachas.’ His English was good, though he retained a strong Argentine accent. Instead of extending his hand he slapped George firmly on the back and gave a loud belly laugh. ‘I’m sure Agatha has shown you around the estancia. She is very proud of her home.’
‘Yes, it’s a beautiful place,’ George replied, overwhelmed by the magnetism of the man.
‘I’m glad you like it. It will be your home for some time, I hope.’ He shifted his deep brown eyes to his wife. ‘Let us eat!’
Agatha tinkled a little silver bell that was placed next to her on the table and Agustina came scampering out with a large oval plate of meat, potatoes and salad. A high-pitched shrieking resounded from the kitchen. Jose Antonio chuckled as he poured himself a large glass of wine. ‘I see Dolores is at war again,’ he said, raising his glass to George. ‘And you thought the war was over.’
‘She’s in a particularly filthy mood today. Though I have to say in all the years I’ve been here I’ve only ever seen her smile once,’ said Agatha, serving herself some lunch.
George filled his plate as much as he could without appearing greedy and took a generous mouthful. It tasted as good as it looked.
‘You know they say people become their names. Dolores means “pain”,’ said Jose Antonio.
‘She’s not in pain!’ Agatha exclaimed.
‘No, Gorda, she gives pain to everyone else!’ He roared with laughter.
‘If what you say is true about names I’ve certainly become mine,’ she said with a smile. Then turning to George she added, ‘Jose Antonio’s nickname for me is Gorda, which means fat.’
George wanted to reassure her that she wasn’t fat but felt he could not do so without looking foolish, so instead he said, ‘You’re a fine figure of a woman, Aunt Agatha.’
‘I have to be to run this place; Jose Antonio lives like a king.’
It was true. Jose Antonio was waited on hand and foot by his wife and even Dolores, who had known him since he was a boy. George was surprised to see that with her husband Agatha seemed to suppress her personality. She didn’t talk so much and she laughed at all his jokes, however lame they were. She was quite clearly cleverer than he was and so capable that he had no idea how much work it took to run their home. Everything was just as he liked it. The meals were served on time, the food was always fresh and delicious, the horses were always ready, the puesto was organized and efficient, and the small band of helpers toiled away quietly so that Jose Antonio was aware only of the perfection of the stage and not of the sweating behind the scenes. Guests came and went, and the bedrooms were always clean with linen sheets, cut flowers and new bars of soap. Jose Antonio received them warmly but never thought to thank his wife for all her hard work. Only Dolores screeched and wailed, totally out of anyone’s control. But he tolerated her for she was part of the place. She had screeched all the way through his childhood so he had grown used to it.
After lunch Jose Antonio slept a siesta. Sometimes he would ride into town and visit his mistress, Molina. He’d roll around with her for a while, then fall asleep on her large, foamy breasts. Unlike Agatha, she was young and slim with skin the colour of burnt sugar. Best of all he liked her bottom, soft and round like a peach. Today, however, he was tired. Showing off in front of their new guest had required more wine and the wine had made him drowsy, so he fell onto his bed and snored for two hours, dreaming of Molina’s firm buttocks. George dozed off in a hammock that belonged to the children. It was hot and he had barely slept the night before. Fortunately, Jose Antonio’s room was up in one of the towers on the other side of the house, so George was able to rest undisturbed by his uncle’s snoring and the churning sound of his digestion.